Winters looks at me like I just pa.s.sed gas. "Excuse me?"

"The best weapons have names," I say, speaking as old Josef, who I now recall had a habit of naming prized weaponry, and apparently still does. I hold the machete up. "This is Faithful." Which makes it better than me, I think, but keep to myself. I turn to Allenby. "You said Maya's tracker signal popped back up. Is she nearby?"

Allenby frowns. "Louisiana. New Orleans. Hope you're not afraid of flying now. Lyons sent a team in that direction an hour ago, so they've got a head start."

"You said Lyons didn't think Maya was alive," I point out.

"It's not a rescue mission. It's an a.s.sault."

"If they're already in the air, how are we going to catch up?"

"I've made arrangements," Winters says. "Lyons might have vast resources, including planes, but Neuro is just a small cog in the larger machine that I have access to. We'll get there first, if we leave now."

"This might be a stupid question," I say, "but why don't we have a couple of F-22s force them to land?"

"Lyons has a lot of friends," Winters says. "In Washington and the military. He's probably got F-22s escorting him. Our best play is to beat him there, get Maya to safety, and see if her survival takes the wind out of his sails."

I appreciate that Winters and Allenby think there is an alternative to the coming violence, but I'm not convinced. Not by a long shot. Conflicts like this are ended by violence, an opinion that is, thus far, supported by my returning memory. If I'm able to get Maya clear, I might even give Lyons my blessing. I have no love for the Dread, and he's the only one capable of responding to the threat. Allenby seems to think I've been cut out of the loop because a fearful Crazy wouldn't approve of war-of fighting the Dread. But the opposite is true. By taking Maya, they've rekindled my hatred for them. I appreciate Allenby's position, but Maya is my only concern. Not only did she love me, unconditionally, but she also made me feel more ... human. I lived in darkness so vast that I was able to see the Dread, not with my eyes, but with my heart. I recognized the effect they had on people because it was the same effect my presence so often elicited. Maya freed me from that, and now I'm going to free her from it.

Voices, firm and professional, slide into the room from the hallway beyond. Commands and confirmations. Dread Squad. They're already here.

Allenby picks up and shoves the oscillium armor at me. "We can't let them take you. It's time to be Crazy."

The plan is simple. Allenby, a trusted higher-up at Neuro, will claim I've left, and she'll request an audience, via phone or video, with Lyons. Winters, whose oversight of Neuro gives her authority separate from Lyons, will vouch for her. If granted, she can try to talk him out of whatever endgame he's working toward, or at least glean some intel, which could help my rescue effort. If we can't do that, Allenby thinks Lyons might have the sleeping-giant comparison backward, that he might instigate the end of humanity at the hands of the Dread. I'm not convinced, and until Maya is safe, I'm not taking sides.

Some of what I remember about Lyons isn't encouraging. On the surface, he's a good grandfather and devoted father. He's also a tortured soul, deeply feeling the frightening events of his youth, when the Dread visited him at night, nightmares made real. He didn't talk about those dark times often, not that I can remember yet, anyway, but when he did ... The emotional scars are deep. But there is another side to the man, kept from plain sight, that is emerging in my memory. After his time with the Dread, before the CIA, he saw war as a young man. In Korea. I now remember a conversation with him, during which he reminisced about the firefights, the confusion and sound and adrenaline of battle. He waxed about battle the way an exfootball star fondly remembers game-winning plays. While he's been content to research his lifelong enemy, collect war trophies from around the world, and oversee his own private army, perhaps the events of the past two weeks have freed him to relive his glory days, if only vicariously through Dread Squad? Has Maya's abduction pushed him over the edge and thrust him to wage war he can't win?

He might even view himself as some kind of n.o.ble hero, a modern-day George Washington, crossing the rift between worlds to free humanity from the Dread tyranny. It's not even that much of a stretch if he could pull it off. But Allenby thinks he's more likely to doom us all. She might be right, but if the Dread could wipe us out, why haven't they done it already? That alone says a conventional victory might be possible.

My part of the current plan is simple. Hide and wait. Cobb and Blair have transportation ready and waiting. Once Allenby is away, I'll be off to New Orleans with Winters and whatever help she's summoned. Like I said, simple.

"Don't move," a man shouts. I can't see him from my hiding place behind a weapons counter, but I can see Winters and Allenby. And I don't like what I'm seeing. The looks on their faces, along with their suddenly raised hands, tells me two things. They don't know these men, and they've got guns pointed at them.

My heart starts pumping hard. I can hear the rushing blood behind my ears. My vision narrows. Muscles tense. Even if nothing happens, I'm going to need a little time to recover from the adrenaline dump.

"I'm Dr. Allenby, and I would like to-"

"Don't care who you say you are, so shut it." The gruff man's voice carries an unsaid threat. His next words are spoken into the hallway beyond him. "Are they on the list?"

"Both of you know me," Winters says, glaring at them. "Lower your weapons, now, or-"

"Yeah, they're on the list," someone else replies. A hand slips into view, holding a small tablet. I can barely make out a photo of Allenby on the screen. The man holding the tablet swipes his thumb a few times. I see Cobb's photo, and mine, and then Winters's.

Winters clenches her fists. "Listen, you two-"

"ID confirmed," the man says, pulling back the tablet. Winters takes a step forward, violent intent barely contained. She's stopped by the muzzle of a gun, leveled at my aunt's chest. "Stay where you are."

"Why are you here?" Allenby asks, still defiant.

In reply, the man taps his finger on the touch screen and turns the device around. It's a video of Lyons. He's in a hangar. Men rush back and forth behind him. He leans in close, face slick with sweat, eyes unfocused, but angry. He doesn't look well. "Josef, Kelly, and anyone who happens to be aiding your unsanctioned endeavor, I am aware of your efforts to restore Josef's memory, and I'm afraid I cannot allow you to continue. Your actions and plans are tantamount to treason. And in times of war, such as this, the only acceptable response to this crime is of the harsh sort."

What? My mind reels. This man is my father-in-law. We worked together. What he's saying doesn't fit with what I know of the man. But that's still an incomplete picture. What are we missing?

"Dr. Winters," Lyons continues, "if you are present, you have been a trusted colleague until now. Please decide which side of this you want to fall on. Josef. Kelly. I tried to avoid this, I really did." He sighs. "Family has always been my core ... but now, what we're doing is for all the other families on this planet. I'm afraid our broken house has become a liability. Kelly, you oppose my plans. Always have. Josef ... I'm sorry, son, but even the best soldiers become expendable eventually, and I can't let either of you stand in my way. Good-bye."

Before I can fully register the threat, a sharp report of a gunshot contained in a small s.p.a.ce stabs my ears, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the sight of my aunt, whom I've only just begun to remember, but who I know I adore, falling back through the puff of pink that has exploded from her back.

I'm rooted in shock, processing surprise slower than I used to, but Winters acts before Allenby hits the floor. She brings her foot up hard, kicking the unseen soldier's wrist. The gun falls free, clattering to the floor, just a few feet away from me.

"Crazy!" Winters shouts without looking at me. Her voice snaps me into action. I pick up the dropped gun and aim it at the backside of the door, looking to fire thirteen rounds into whoever is on the other side. The problem is that Winters is also on the other side. I know my old self would just aim to the right and fire, but I can't risk hitting her. She follows the kick with a punch. I hear it connect. The struck soldier falls, but he's not alone. Whoever is behind him is now free to act.

And he does.

A perfect three-round burst punches a triangle of holes into Winters's chest. She stands frozen, looking down at the red plumes of color growing on her blouse. She starts turning her startled eyes in my direction but never gets the chance to make eye contact. She deserved so much better than this.

"b.i.t.c.h," the soldier says.

A single shot snaps Winters's head back. She crumples in on herself.

My old self-Crazy-would have handled this differently. Sure, he might have shot Winters, too, but maybe not fatally. At least with that version of myself, she'd have a chance of survival. As rage overcomes any traces of fear, I dive forward and slide into view in the last place they'd expect it, underfoot. I fire a single round. The bullet slips neatly through the man's soft throat and explodes out through the back of his head.

The mix of blood and brains spray on the second man's face, causing him to flinch. I put a hole in his forehead before he can recover.

A third soldier slides into view, firing an a.s.sault rifle from the hip. He sprays bullets into the armory, hitting everything at waist height, which is nothing. Wisely, he hasn't fully entered the doorway. But that can be corrected. I shoot his leg, punching a hole through his shin. He topples to the side, shouting in pain. But his voice, and life, are silenced by a bullet before he lands atop his deceased comrades.

I lay there, breathing for a moment, waiting for more soldiers to enter the room. But no one comes.

I don't even need to look at Winters to know she's dead. And I'm not sure I could handle seeing her like that, not after remembering what she meant to me. But Allenby ... I drop to my knees, put a hand behind her head, and check her pulse. It's faint, but there. I glance down at the wound. The Dread Squad soldier aimed for her heart, but missed, punching a hole through her shoulder instead.

Her eyes flutter open.

Our eyes meet for a moment and she smiles. "Are you all right?"

That she's worried about me when she has a bullet hole staggers me. "I am."

She sees me glance at Winters and follows my eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I know you cared for her."

Part of me wants to linger, to mourn for Winters's death. She did mean a lot to me. But there is still a chance that I can save Maya, and when all of this is done, kick Lyons's teeth in. His war might be justified, but this kind of violent paranoia is uncalled for. There will be a reckoning for Winters's death. "Do you know her CIA contact?"

My aunt nods. "He's a good man. She's already been in touch with him. Understands the situation and our part in stopping it. Help me up." I lift her by her good arm. Ignoring the still-bleeding wound in her shoulder, she digs into her pocket and takes out her phone. She snaps a photo of Winters and the men who killed her. I nearly ask why, but then realize Winters's contact is going to want confirmation that she's dead.

When she looks up at me, I must look a little sh.e.l.l-shocked. She pockets the phone and puts her hand on my face. "There is more strength in you than you know, Josef. You just need to remember."

Her eyes drift downward. She reaches out and takes hold of the chain beneath my shirt. She tugs it, and the strange melted pendant that is my security blanket falls out. She lifts the rough, circular, color-swirled mystery up so I can see it. "Remember."

I'm about to tell her that's not how it works, that the memories come back randomly, but then, with quick breath, I realize that I already remember this. It came in a cl.u.s.ter of information, hidden until now, freed and brought to the forefront of my thoughts.

Something's burning, I think, and stand from my home-office chair. The chemical scent in the air is subtle, but so out of place in my home that I react immediately. There are several things in this world that produce similar odors, none of them good, and I wonder for a moment if one of the CIA's enemies has figured out who I am. Recovering and unlocking the handgun hidden in my desk drawer, I hurry through the house, following the scent toward the kitchen.

I pause at the open doorway, no danger in sight, but with Simon home I'm not going to take any chances. Right now it's just the two of us. Maya is out shopping. Moving slowly, I lean into the room and quickly spot my target-a panicking six-year-old boy who has melted two action figures on the stove top. A cookie sheet covered with chicken nuggets and french fries lays next to the mess.

I tuck the gun behind my back and hurry into the room. Simon turns toward me, eyes wide and overflowing with tears. He's waving his hands at the rising toxic smoke. "I was trying to make lunch for us! I turned on the wrong one!"

The action figures are now a puddle of colorful swirling plastic sitting atop the smooth-topped stove.

"I'm sorry," he says, now blubbering and snotty. His abject despair breaks my heart.

I quickly turn off the burner. "Hey, hey, it's okay." It's really not okay, but I'm pretty sure he's learned that on his own.

"I melted my guys," he says, revealing the true source of his sadness.

I kiss his forehead and stand up. It's an unG.o.dly mess. And nothing I do now is going to change that. I get two knives from a drawer and return to the cooling stove top. Using, and ruining, the two blades, I carve the liquid, still-fuming plastic into two gooey mounds. Then I form them into thick, colorful ma.s.ses. I open two windows, letting the cross-breeze clean the air, and we spend the next ten minutes it takes for the burner and plastic to cool in silence. When everything is cool to the touch, I wedge a metal spatula beneath the two circles of plastic and chip them off.

Simon is no longer sad. He's curious. I lead him down to the bas.e.m.e.nt, set up two spots at the workbench, and take out some tools. After drilling holes in both plastic circles, I set to work with a wood burner, melting words into the back of both chunks. The air fills, once again, with the stench of melting plastic, but the work doesn't take long. When I'm done, I turn them around so Simon can see my handiwork.

"What do they say?" he asks.

"It says, 'evidence,'" I tell him, and then slide old neck chains through each. I put the first over his head and the second over mine. "This way we'll never forget what happened ... and your mom will never know."

That gets a smile out of him.

And me.

Until I return from the memory, lift the plastic pendant, and turn it around. The word is still there. "Evidence." So neither of us will ever forget. I nearly start crying, in part because of the sweet memory, but also because I chose to forget it. It's unforgivable. Then I hear footsteps. Rushing. Whispered commands. More soldiers moving down the hallway, no doubt rushing to inspect their dead.

I recover the Vector a.s.sault rifle I'd failed to remember before.

Allenby takes my arm. "Are you okay to do this?"

I chamber a round, slip my arm out of her hand, and step into the hallway. It takes just a moment for me to confirm the targets are not friendly, and then I sweep the muzzle back and forth, finger held down hard over the trigger. It's some of the poorest, old-world-style gangster shooting I've ever done, but the sheer number of rounds makes it effective. All three soldiers drop.

I take one last look into the armory, at the woman who might have loved me, and then turn to Allenby. No words need to be said. We're going to get Maya back and rain down h.e.l.l on anyone stupid enough to get in our way. She nods and we head out together.

After meeting Cobb, Blair, and Stephanie, we race to the airport. While Allenby coordinates with Winters's CIA contact, Cobb tends to her shoulder. Stephanie, who's already done everything she can to help, parts ways with us at the airport, taking the car and heading west to stay with family in Vermont, one of the few places on earth to still be largely free of violence.

After pa.s.sing through a security check, we're escorted onto the tarmac by two silent men in suits and head for an open hangar. Blair stops, mouth open, when we reach the doors. "Is that a-"

"Concorde," Allenby says.

The plane's sharp, downward sloping nose makes it easy to identify. The Concorde is the fastest pa.s.senger plane to have every crisscrossed the Atlantic. It was decommissioned after a few well-publicized crashes and more than a few complaints about the sonic boom generated when the plane breaks the sound barrier, tearing through the sky at Mach 2, more than twice the speed of the fastest troop transport.

Ten minutes later, we're in the air, cruising at 1500 miles per hour and escorted through the FAA-emptied skies by three F-18s. Our man at the CIA is getting things done, and quietly. Lyons will have no idea we're coming.

I spend part of the three-hour flight catching up on global news, which is dramatically grim. The way global events are being presented leaves little doubt that a nuclear holocaust is imminent; the government is days, if not hours, from being overthrown; and better make friends with your gun-carrying neighbors because militia frontier life is the only hope for survival in the soon-to-be nuclear wasteland. For once, all the drama is justified. Cities are imploding, the violence chaotic and without reason. Militaries are still largely under control, but there are troop movements on the borders of too many countries to count. The Dread need to be stopped through whatever means necessary, meaning there is a chance that Lyons's aggressive option is justified. It is, after all, a proven tactic. If Maya is safe and her father really has a way to remove the Dread threat from our world, then I hope he succeeds. And when he's done, he'll answer for Winters.

Violence has escalated out of control in major cities around the world, and tensions between nations are reaching the point where a few navies and air forces have skirmished, leaving nearly two hundred dead and a j.a.panese maritime self-defense force destroyer limping back to port, courtesy of the Chinese. If it weren't for the trouble brewing in the major cities of most nations, I think the world would have already rushed headlong into war. The threat of civil war seems to be the only thing tempering militaries, just in case they're needed at home. Alliances are breaking down as paranoia runs rampant. An every-man-for-himself mentality has taken hold of governments.

It's a brilliant strategy. No one outside Neuro would even think to consider the real cause of all this chaos. People are afraid and, like good mammals, are focused solely on the clear and present dangers, rather than the ones lurking just beyond perception. All the Dread need to do is pull their influence from one area and apply it to another. Send the rioters home, and the world goes to war. Turn government attention inward, and the riots become civil war. Maybe they'll do all of the above?

Allenby thinks that the only way out of this for the human race is for the Dread to back off. I'm not totally convinced, and the memories of what they took from me and how they did it fuel a deeply personal desire for vengeance.

When I'm not watching the news, I'm remembering.

This isn't my first trip to New Orleans. In a cruel irony, the city is where Maya and I spent our honeymoon. Not the usual place for a pair of newlyweds, but we both like the food, music, and atmosphere. We spent two weeks exploring the bayou, the city, and the culture. When the memory returned, it felt like recapturing some of the happiest days of my life ... a life I want returned.

My childhood is almost a complete picture, much of it fading back to the recesses of my mind. My years as a young man are spotty, but I remember my training and a good number of special ops missions, and CIA ... a.s.signments. More recent memories are fewer, but several early years of my life with Maya and Simon are nearly complete. Each new memory-a birthday, anniversary, quiet night at home-stabs a fresh pang of sadness into my gut. But the knowledge that my sweet boy was brutally slain by his own mother's forced hand transmogrifies grief into rage.

And I welcome it.

I'm going to need it. The memory of what the Dread can do, the kind of fear they can push into a human mind, is still fresh. But anger, I've learned, is one of the best ways to overcome fear. And right now, I've got anger to spare.

The most recent years of my life, a year ago, are still full of holes, some small, others gaping. I decide not to worry about them. My path is already set and they'll come in time, if I survive.

Allenby pulls my eyes away from the TV, showing what appears to be a vicious gang fight, but is actually the British Parliament. I point to the small screen mounted to the seat in front of me. "Have you seen this?"

She glances at the screen but seems almost uninterested. Her downturned lips hint at grim news. "What is it?"

"I've just got word," she says, motioning for me to move over. I do, and she slumps into the seat beside me, wincing from the effort of sitting down. "The president has given Russia an ultimatum."

"Let me guess," I say. "Putin needs to pull his troops back from the borders of former USSR states."

She shakes her head. "I'm afraid it's too late for that. Russia invaded Ukraine, Georgia, and a handful of 'stans' this morning. They've been waiting for the chance, so it didn't take much prodding. The only silver lining is that those nations were smart enough, or maybe too afraid, to fight back. The real problem is that, as of twenty minutes ago, Russia's nuclear a.r.s.enal went hot."

She doesn't need to finish the thought. If Russia was prepping for launch, so was every other nuclear nation in the West. Things are escalating. "The Dread know Lyons is coming," I guess.

Allenby says nothing, which I take as agreement.

"How long did the president give them?" I ask.

She looks at me, fear in her eyes despite the absence of Dread on this plane. "Three hours."

"How long until we land?"

"One hour."

"s.h.i.t."

"Indeed."

"And if they don't back down?" I ask. "What was the threat?"

"Open-ended," she says, meaning that all cards were on the table. In two hours, things are going to get out of hand.

I set a timer on my watch. Two hours and fifty minutes, adjusting for the time it took for the news to reach me. Then I say, "I'm going to sleep," knowing I'll need all the energy I can get when we land.